


Santa Baby

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 2003, Christmas, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mariah Carey songs, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Patrick is done, Sexy Santa Outfits, Smut, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 12:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17121236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Pete thinks he has the best idea: raise money for local charities by dressing as sexy Santas for their final show before Christmas.Patrick is so okay with the first part, he's almost willing to overlook the ritual humiliation of the second.





	Santa Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> Since this will be the last thing I post before the end of 2018, I just wanted to take a second to thank you guys for taking the time to read my stuff, to leave comments and kudos and subscribing to updates from me, or for following me on Tumblr and generally being awesome. I wouldn't have carried on writing if it wasn't for your love and support and here's to whatever 2019 may bring. 
> 
> Again, I had a lengthier plot figured out, it was going to be great! Then I wrote _this_ instead. Goes beautifully with candy canes and a nagging urge to check the privacy settings on your browser history!
> 
> Enjoy, and don't forget to check out the other Merry Little Peterick fics this year.
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168268289@N03/32561577668/in/dateposted-public/)

“I have a great idea,” Pete says over pizza and under thin, ratty strings of depressing-looking tinsel. Patrick suspects this statement can’t possibly be true but, before he can articulate this, Pete presses on and proves him completely, irrefutably and totally correct. “We should dress as sexy Santas for our last show before christmas.”

In the silence that follows, Patrick chews, swallows and looks up. “And what,” he says carefully, “is your _great_ idea?”

Eyes narrowed, challenging, Pete raises his chin and presses a finger into the center of Patrick’s chest. “Don’t insult my ideas.”

“I’m not, I’m just waiting for the great one. I assumed that was the precursor, the opening act, The Terminator original to your _actual_ , quote unquote, _great_ idea.” Patrick thinks the air quotes really add a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to the depths of his sarcasm. “I’m waiting. Impress me.”

At the far side of the table, Joe and Andy perk up. It’s a source of immense irritation for Patrick that the two of them view Pete-and-Patrick confrontation as a spectator sport.

“Guys,” apparently not content to let it lie, Pete turns this into the Ides of March and hauls his merry band of traitorous assholes along for the ride, “ _you_ think it’s a great idea, right? Oh! No, wait, _here’s_ the great idea: we could like, make people give us money to do it!”

Patrick recoils. “Like _strippers_?” He is _so_ not wearing a garter belt.

“Like _charity_ , dumbass.” Patrick is _not_ the dumbass here. Pete steeples his fingers, brings them to his lips and then finger guns across the table. “Joe-Troh, your thoughts?”

Sat directly opposite Pete in a diner booth that smells of dried out cheese (the pizza pan) and dirty socks (his band), Patrick tries very hard not to watch the way Pete’s lips purse to the tips of his fingers.

“Honestly, I’ll agree to anything that makes Patrick look like his head’s going to explode,” Joe shrugs. Patrick crosses him off the list of Christmas cards he’ll never actually write. “Charity is a bonus. I’m in.”

“I — I _never_ get mad!” Patrick says, wounded deeply by the disbelieving snort Joe bubbles into his soda. “What? I don’t!”

“Dude, you literally just kicked a dent into the van door because Pete ate the last of the gummy bears.”

“That was different—”

“You punched a hole in the wall because I said Rushmore wasn’t as good as The Breakfast Club.”

“I mean, technically, it’s not—”

“We still have a milk stain on the kitchen wall from that time Pete suggested a lyric change while you were making breakfast.”

“Oh _come on_ , you can’t hold that against me, he was _wrong_ ,” he turns to Pete earnestly; it’s very important that he understands, “you were so very, _very_ wrong.” Now that Patrick’s thinking about it, every last one of those incidents centered around Pete. There’s a definite common denominator and it’s absolutely _nothing_ to do with Patrick.

“Getting mad?” Joe drawls, stealing a fry from the edge of Patrick’s plate. Patrick resists, heroically, the urge to drive his fork into the back of Joe’s hand.

“You’re a traitor,” Patrick informs him, but Joe doesn’t seem to mind. He turns his attention to Andy. The thing is, two years ago, Patrick was a drummer, and he’s got this untested theory about drummer solidarity. That and Andy is basically the most sensible dude Patrick knows and sensible dudes don’t dress as sexy Santas to appease malicious overlord bassists. “Okay, man. Looks like it’s you and me against—”

“I’ll do it.” Patrick’s going to save _so much money_ on Christmas cards. “Why not? It’s for charity.”

“Drummer solidarity?” Patrick offers pathetically.

“Rhythm boyz for lyfe,” Pete says, engaging Andy in some kind of complicated handshake that neither of them seem to have rehearsed. Patrick can _hear_ the poor spelling in the sentence.

They knock the salt shaker over the last slice of pizza and it’s not that Patrick necessarily _wanted_ it, but he hadn’t unilaterally decided that he _didn’t_ either. He scowls at his striped paper straw and decides that he’s forever going to associate this moment with the piped rendition of _All I Want for Christmas Is You_ crackling overhead. Mariah Carey doesn’t deserve this but, in a cosmic sense, neither does Patrick. “I hate you guys.”

“I already told you, it’s a _great idea_ ,” Pete assures him; Patrick doesn’t feel assured. In fact, Patrick feels pissed off, outnumbered and Grinch-like. “Cheer up, Grinch.”

“I’m not the Grinch.” He is. “It’s just, I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to polyester.”

“Literally every item of clothing you own says otherwise.”

“Pah,” Patrick says sourly. Somehow, Pete has turned him into the kind of person that says ‘pah’. “Joe, come on! Chord dudes forever?”

When Patrick says it, the grammar and spelling are impeccable, there’s no verbal capitalisation at all. Joe raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I’m lead. You’re a chord nerd all on your own.”

“Vocal bros?” Patrick tries.

“Keep trying,” Joe swipes the last piece of pizza and Patrick hopes he gets sodium poisoning for his trouble. He also hopes sodium poisoning is contagious so that Pete and Andy catch it, too.

“I’m going solo,” Patrick mutters darkly at his drink. It offers little in the way of sympathy. “Just you see if I don’t.”

*

There are Three Stages of Fuckery with Pete Wentz and Patrick is counting them.

One is the number of times Pete has whispered ‘I think I might be into you’ in a way that seemed, to Patrick at least, to be less about his burgeoning frontman persona and more about the two of them engaging in distinctly PG-13 activities. Not R-rated. Pete seemed to have more innocent pastimes in mind — making out under covers but over underwear, rubbing down and grinding up. The Catholic Church is wrong, it turns out, because Patrick hasn’t gone blind yet despite what he does in the safety of his locked room, thinking about what else Pete might possibly be into.

Two is the number of times Pete has taken his hand in the dark of the van and swirled love songs into the delicate, nervebold tenderness of Patrick’s inner wrist. It makes Patrick feel like he’s flying, less like a bird, more like a cut-string balloon tossed on wind currents over Chicago. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and utterly fucking terrifying.

Three is how many times Pete has apologised for every god-fucked word that’s rolled from his mouth, every hint of perceived inappropriateness and inexcusable overstepping of boundaries that he’s never stopped to ask if Patrick actually _has_.

(Patrick — for the record — has yet to discover a boundary that stands between him and Pete. They’re utopic, open borders, crossing back and forth into one another’s territory without the need for travel documents or international, diplomatic permission or immunity. Aside from the sexy Santa thing. Patrick suspects that warrants at least a checkpoint.)

So, there are three stages of fuckery and three days since Pete’s great idea. This means it’s roughly four days, three hours and seventeen minutes until Patrick has to haul his ass on stage dressed as a sexy Santa. Not that he’s counting. Instead of counting, he’s been listening to All I Want for Christmas Is You on a loop and plotting murders like an intricate game of Clue.

It was Rhythm Rick in the green room with the Roland RIC-G3.

He stares at his laptop and takes a moment to marvel that he can summon literally anything in the world with a few keystrokes and, with the extortionate addition of ‘expedited shipping’, find it wrapped and tucked at the bottom of his closet the following day. Patrick has never been more thankful for the apartment; these are _not_ the kind of images he wants his mother to find.

He has it narrowed down to two options. The first is a flirty little fur-trimmed number that he _thinks_ (see: _hopes_ ) will drop roughly mid-thigh. Second is an option he’s internally referring to as Full Festive Nun, ankle length, wrist length, high collar. He’s pretty sure Pete won’t think it qualifies as sexy, but it’s got the Santa part covered enough that Patrick can play dumb on the big day.

“What’re you doing?” Pete crashes into his personal space with all of the grace and technical strategy of a meteorite. Patrick slams the laptop lid down so hard he nearly loses three fingers in the process.

“Nothing,” Patrick says, like a liar. And then, because he’s incredibly stupid and because what he’s about to word-vomit sounds, internally at least, far less embarrassing than ‘shopping for sexy Santa outfits’, Patrick carries right on talking. “Watching porn, go away.”

“For real?” Pete bleats, snaking, greedy hands grasping for the front of Patrick’s laptop. “Is it good? Is it two dudes? Three dudes? No dudes? I feel like there’s probably dudes, though. Hey, you’re wearing a lot of clothes for someone watching porn. Can I watch, too?”

“No you _can’t_ watch porn with me! Anyway, I watch it for the storylines,” Patrick says, apparently unable to stop his mouth from moving. In his lap, Pete’s fingers curl around the edge of the laptop screen once more, Patrick will snap each and every one of them if he has to. “You know, some of the studios put a lot of effort in these days, it’s not all pizza delivery guys and AC engineers. They have editors and, like, screenwriters and stuff. I watched one the other day that examined gender roles in college faculty.”

Pete wriggles closer, like a puppy. Or a snake. “How’d that end?”

“How do you _think_ ,” Patrick wags the fingers of his free hand, “Dean of Dong is a cinematic masterpiece but I don’t think telling you how it ends would constitute spoilers. Get _off_ my fucking laptop, Wentz, I’m not going to suddenly _forget_ you’re trying to pry it out of my hands, no matter how gentle you think you’re being.”

Somehow, Patrick manages to flop on his belly, the laptop crushed between his stomach — okay, his crotch — and his mattress. Undeterred, Pete slithers onto Patrick’s back and drapes across him like a terrible fashion accessory. Unhelpfully, Patrick’s penis reacts to the solid, heavy heat of Pete’s body by rerouting his bloodstream entirely to his enthusiastic, celebratory erection. It’s very difficult to think around the wooze of a head rush.

“Get off of me,” Patrick groans. He knows Pete won’t.

“Hey,” Pete says, and his breath is very hot, slightly damp and scented faintly with peppermint candy cane sugariness against Patrick’s cheek, “hey, I had like, the _best_ idea.”

“You already made that claim. For the record, it wasn’t.”

“No, no, no. That was _a great idea_. This is different, this is _the best idea_.”

“Okay fine,” Patrick’s cock slides against the lipped ridge of the laptop, his voice slides up half an octave. If he comes in his pants with Pete mounting him like he’s giving out horsey rides, that’s the last christmas card stricken from his list. “What’s your _best_ idea?”

Pete pauses, then says like it’s obvious. “A song. At the show.”

“Peter,” Patrick begins, with far more patience than he feels, “we’re a _band_. We’re expected — no, we’re _contractually obliged_ — to play songs at our shows.”

Pete shifts. It’s almost impossible to tell through two pairs of jeans, Pete’s so tight it probably counts as a form of BDSM, but Patrick’s sure he feels the swell of some unspoken, improbable hardness against the curve of his ass. He turns his groan into an irritated huff and finds a soft, snug little channel between the laptop and his comforter to situate his inappropriate erection.

“A _christmas_ song,” Pete whispers. He runs a hand up Patrick’s side and along the ridge and bump of his rib cage, hauling the cotton of his shirt along skin humming with static. For a stuttered heartbeat, Patrick forgets how to breathe. Then, Pete breaks the spell, pops the soap bubble fragility of lust tingling low in Patrick’s belly with seven words. “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

Patrick bucks as hard as he can. Pete sails, inelegant, across the bed and greets the wall with a wounded grunt. Patrick rolls to his back and then immediately remembers the Crotch Situation, snatching a pillow and hugging it like a life raft, cast adrift in a sea of inappropriate, jumbled Pete Thoughts. “ _Mariah_? Fuck you! And I’m _not_ dancing, just so we’re absolutely clear.”

“You’re a good dancer,” Pete says, like anyone at all in the world ever asked him for his opinion on this or any other skill set he believes Patrick may or may not have. Patrick can only assume his expression shifts from ‘startled’ to ‘murderous’ as Pete hurries on. “It’s for _charity_ , Patrick. _Charity_.”

“Get out of my room.”

“I could help you pick out a costume,” Pete offers hopefully, something caramel sweet in the depths of his eyes, in the nuclear launch trajectory of the curve of his lips against the too-big whiteness of his teeth. God, if Patrick doesn’t get a hand around his dick in the next minute, he’s almost certain he’ll explode. “Or decide on a song you _do_ like?”

“Get _out_ of my _room_.” Patrick’s prick is throbbing heat into the veins and capillaries of his face, his skin itching, too tight. “Before I think too hard about what you’ve talked me into and I’m left with no choice but to push you out of the goddamn window.”

“Okay, fine, I’m going,” Pete goes, hauling himself to his feet via a slow, deliberate slither over Patrick’s lower body. Patrick is no more than an exposed, raw nerve, stinging down into the wet, red guts of him as he clutches his pillow for dear life. “And remember,” Pete pauses in the shadowed arch of Patrick’s bedroom door, backlit by the cheap, Dollar Tree twinkle-lights they strung in the hallway, red, green, blue, yellow streaking beautiful iridescence across the delicate curve of Pete’s cheekbones. He’s never looked more lovely. He ruins it immediately. “You’re always sexy to me.”

He slams the door closed before the furious arc of Patrick’s sneaker can connect with his skull, his laugh echoing through the dull, tension-pain throb of Patrick’s temples. When he flips his laptop open once more — _not_ for porn, _never_ for porn — he discovers the agony of indecision has been taken from him.

Apparently, he humped his way to the ‘buy it now’ button, eBay tauntingly informing him that his sexy, fur-trimmed, _short_ little Santa dress is currently being dispatched.

*

“Hey, Rick!” Joe calls cheerfully across the damp-smell chill of their barren little practice space. “Good news.”

“Everyone’s decided that we’re actual professionals and no one is going to fuck with anything I touch?” Patrick asks hopefully, fingers a little cramped and blue as he fumbles with the catch of his guitar case.

Across the chipped linoleum, _Joe’s_ fingers seem toasty warm pink in a pair of snipped down gloves that look suspiciously like the pair Patrick left on the coffee table and couldn’t find this morning. A thief, as well as a traitor.

“Ha! As if,” Andy says. “It’s better than that,” he pauses, Patrick raises his eyebrows in silent question. Across the room, Pete seems very interested in the way wet, gray mould spiders its way across the drywall. “We’re playing Mariah at the show tomorrow.”

Patrick only realizes he’s clutching his guitar like an axe and advancing on Pete in a manner that can only be described as threatening when Joe catches him by the shoulder.

“I’ll kill you in your sleep,” he promises. “No, fuck that, I’ll wait til you’re awake. I want you to feel every second of it.”

“Charity, Tricky!” Pete says, launching into the only bass line he’s ever rehearsed in his life, the opening bars of the Mariah classic, the song on loop in every shopping mall, grocery store and radio station from mid-November until New Year’s, taunting Patrick through the tremulous shudder of their second-best amp. “It’s for the kids!”

“He told you I said no?” Patrick has no idea why he’s phrasing it as a question; his band is constructed entirely of assholes. They nod, both of them annoyingly unconcerned about this deep, untapped level of treachery. “So why the _fuck_ did you agree?”

“You’re looking, like, _super_ red, dude.” If Joe grins any wider, his stupid mouth might split. Patrick’s okay with that. “You getting mad?”

Patrick hauls a deep breath, holds it, reminds himself that beating Pete to death would only prove them all right. He grits his teeth so hard he’s sure his dentist is wincing. “No. We’re good. It’s just a song.”

“Charity,” Pete repeats solemnly. “It’s all for charity.”

*

Having given it some serious thought and consideration, Patrick has drawn the entirely logical conclusion that there is no way in hell he’s ever leaving his bedroom. Dressed head to toe in scarlet nylon and acrylic faux fur, Patrick wonders – if he upends the box in which this monstrosity was delivered, will he find the tattered remnants of his dignity somewhere amongst cellophane and packing peanuts?

“Dude?” Pete calls through the door; Patrick hurls himself against it like the lock just isn’t enough. “You okay in there?”

_Okay_? There’s an eight-inch strip of pale thigh exposed between Patrick’s candy cane striped over knee stockings and his flammable faux-fur hemline. He’s wearing eyeliner. He’s slicked his mouth clumsily with pink-tint peppermint lip gloss. His Converse look fucking ridiculous and he’ll place a bet equal to whatever they manage to raise for charity that Pete had the foresight to buy appropriate shoes. In summary: there’s a landmass roughly on par with pre-continental drift Pangea between Patrick Stump and o _kay_.

“Fuck,” Patrick says, then adds, “fine! I — go away. I have, like, strep or something,” he coughs weakly, “guess I have to stay home.”

Pete, apparently unable to take a hint, carries on anyway. “Quit fucking around. You done?”

Oh, Patrick is _so_ very _done_.

“So, good news and bad news. Good news is, I saw a flyer for trainee real estate agents earlier and I think I’ve really found my calling. Bad news — well — you need a new singer, but like, I think you’ll be fine—”

The door handle creaks, horror movie slowness and listing prescriptions of Pete’s damnable inability to adhere to the basic rules of privacy. Fortunately, Patrick totally locked the door. _Unfortunately_ , Pete has ‘impromptu locksmith’ listed under his special skills, a subset of his personality stored next to things like ‘can hum the introduction to every Prince song in seven different keys – all of them wrong’ and ‘chewing really loudly in his sleep’. The door swings open, Pete swoops inside before Patrick can even think to claim he’s masturbating.

Patrick yelps, “Don’t you fucking _knock_ —”

Pete snaps, “Hurry _up—_ ”

There’s a tick of silence in which they both pause, wide-eyed, and then they say, in beautiful, harmonious unison that Patrick would be musically proud of in any other situation. “Oh.”

“You’re,” says Pete, gesturing somewhere in the region of Patrick’s exposed thighs. “Hmm.”

“Yeah,” says Patrick, each inch of exposed — and unexposed— skin flaming red as his costume as Pete, a vision of sexy Santa Claus in a sleeveless, fur-trimmed vest and painted-on red pants, blinks at him silently. “I am.”

Pete is dressed as a Sexy _Santa_ and Patrick is suddenly, overwhelmingly, aware of the difference between Mr and _Mrs_ Claus.

“Why,” he begins quietly, when it becomes apparent that Pete isn’t going to speak, “aren’t you dressed as sexy Santa?”

“Why,” Pete says, like an asshole, “are you wearing a Mrs Claus outfit when we said sexy _Santa_?”

“That’s the thing! We said _sexy_ Santa,” Patrick points out, his voice very thin and very high, “if you type those words into eBay, this is what comes up! I’m dressed appropriately, you’re the idiot here!”

Pete looks at him. It’s a look that says _you’re the asshole wearing a dress_. Patrick would dearly love to argue but, to be fair, he’s totally the asshole wearing a dress. Honestly, this would be less embarrassing if he _was_ naked. With a soft, inelegant sound, Pete closes the door and takes a deep breath.

Before Patrick can analyse that choked confusion between a groan and a whine, a thought creeps slyly along the length of his spine, pulsing prickles of slick-palm humiliation into his hands as he backs up into the dresser. “Oh God. Andy and Joe are wearing the same as you, aren’t they?” Pete nods. “Oh Jesus Christ, I — I _can’t_ go on stage like this tomorrow! I _can’t_!”

“I mean,” Pete says, then he pauses, cocks his head to one side and starts again, “I mean, if _anyone_ has the thighs for it…”

Patrick is curling in on himself like he curls around his guitar on stage, drawn tight and small and defensive. Bending over does nothing but hitch the skirt up at the back, his thighs pressing bare against the smooth, cool expanse of his dresser drawers. This is not reassuring. “You’re not helping. I’m moving, haven’t decided where, probably Russia. Which part is it with the tigers?”

“Siberia. But as cute as you’d look in one of those hats with the ear flaps — and you’d look _adorable_ , for the record — I can help you with this,” says Pete. He takes Patrick gently by the shoulders and presses him upright. “I — I want to help you.”

Patrick scowls and considers stomping his foot. “I feel like I should be mad at you.”

“Uhuh,” Pete says, looking at his eyes but not into them, pink tongue poking between white teeth as he gently smudges his spit-damp thumb against Patrick’s poorly applied eyeliner.

“This was your idea,” Patrick points out. “You’re legitimately the reason I’m standing here in a dress.”

“I am, I’m sorry,” it would be easier to rail against a Pete that argues back, instead he has this soft Pete, with hands brushing gently through his hair, arranging the Santa hat he jammed down hard enough to half-cover his ears. “But you look hot. Your idea was way better than mine.”

“I look like an idiot.”

“Do not.” Pete’s eyes are liquid copper and gold and very, very contrite. “You’ve put on _way_ too much lip gloss, you need to blot it.”

And, before Patrick can ask what the hell that means or how the hell _Pete_ knows what that means, Pete kisses him.

Patrick’s mouth is filled with the taste of Pete and peppermint, the grease-slick feel of too much lip gloss sliding over his lips, his tongue. It is, easily, the single most sexually exhilarating and, simultaneously, terrifying moment of his life. His pulse is out of rhythm with the rest of his body, vibrating somewhere between atoms, molecules and hot, damp lips pushed inquisitively to his. He squeaks, groans, brings his hands to fist into the fur trimmed center of Pete’s button-up vest. Just as he thinks he might have accustomed himself to the feel of Pete against his mouth, the strong, broad planes of his chest, abs, hips, Pete does the unthinkable and breaks the sugar-sweet softness of the most incredible first kiss of Patrick’s life to date.

“Ngh,” says Patrick, more desperate this time. Pete does not kiss him again. Eyes closed, he shakes Pete lightly by the Santa vest and, for good measure, he says it again. “ _Ngh_?”

Pete touches his cheek with such reverent tenderness, Patrick forces his eyes open. Pete’s mouth is slick, flushed, glazed pink and damp with Patrick’s kiss and candy cane novelty lip tinting gloss. As though it’s the most normal, natural thing in the world, Patrick reaches up and touches two fingers to the place Pete’s lips met his.

“You kissed me,” he mutters.

Pete counters, “Maybe I did. Or maybe I blotted your lipstick.”

“Gloss,” Patrick corrects, like it makes any conceivable difference. “How’s it looking now?”

There’s a possibility that every blood cell in Patrick’s circulatory system has been replaced with the black, white, gray fuzz of untuned television static. He feels fizzy, pop rocks and diet coke shaking through the pulsed-raw buzz of his heart. Strong, warm hands cup Patrick’s face, Pete leans closer, inspects Patrick’s lips and ignites him.

“Needs a little more work.”

This kiss is brighter, sharper, more technicolor explosion than tentative exploration. Pete bites into Patrick’s lip, tugs until it’s swollen hot and flushed. Burning with the slow, indolent flame of confidence at Pete’s hands on his bare thighs, Patrick slides an experimental knee between Pete’s and presses upwards.

Pete’s cock is evident. Thick and raw with improbable hardness against the curve of Patrick’s thigh, he groans his approval into the back of Patrick’s throat. Patrick’s never touched a dick that isn’t his own but believes that Pete — in this and so many other unspoken things — is the best possible way to break the rules. Patrick’s own cock is lush and ripe between his legs, curving, caught against the restraint of his boxer briefs, the tip rubbed raw and wound-tender against the mistletoe print of his novelty underwear. Pete’s hands roam higher, braver, fingers sliding, exploring under the leg of Patrick’s boxers, skating softly over the swollen tenderness of his balls.

There’s every chance Patrick is going to pass out, possibly die. He hopes Pete doesn’t tell anyone about the dress. He hopes Pete doesn’t stop touching him. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.

“Okay,” Pete whispers, hot and breathless and adorably unsure against the swollen curve of Patrick’s lower lip. He hooks his thumb under the waist of Patrick’s boxers. “I think I’m gonna suck your dick now.” He shoves them down.

If Patrick could breathe, he’d agree. Instead all he can do is nod, puppet sharp jerks of his head and eyes pressed closed as Pete sucks wet, open kisses over his stomach. Pete’s fingers splay to his thigh, five points of brilliant brightness that press heat down through skin and muscle until Patrick’s sure the swirls and whorls of each fingerprint will be branded like a tattoo. He bites his lip, sinks his teeth into the tender give of it until he’s certain he’s millimetres from the salt-copper taste of blood as Pete curls his other hand around Patrick’s cock.

Patrick holds his skirt against his chest and breathes.

“Is this too tight?” Pete frowns somewhere between Patrick’s dick and his eyes, head inclined towards the grasp of his fist. Patrick’s cock throbs with unmet need. “I mean, like, looser? Tighter? I don’t know, just — does it feel good?”

“Uh… yeah?” Patrick rolls his hips a little, just enough to graze skin to skin in a kiss of delicious friction. “Perfect. I — I mean, you — you can, you know? Start? Whenever you like. Or don’t. I mean, if you don’t want to. But I’m all good. If you do. Want to start.”

Patrick has no idea what he’s going to do if Pete _doesn’t_ start. It won’t be dignified. He bites his tongue to stop himself from talking.  

Pete nods absently, flirts his tongue against his lips until they’re slicked to a glittered shine in the dim light of Patrick’s cheap bedside lamp. There’s hot breath skittering along the shaft of Patrick’s cock, dampening his skin and chasing powerlines through his bloodstream. He’ll beg, he swears he will, spine straight and fists clenched as he watches Pete lean closer, watches him open his mouth to take him in and then… Heat. Slippery-slick skin and the rasp of his tongue against the underside of Patrick’s cock.

Patrick’s sings at the ceiling, fingers fisted cramp-tight into the cheap polyblend comforter, a whispered hiss of Pete’s name burning the tip of his tongue. What Pete lacks in skill – and he lacks a _lot_ – he makes up for with greedy enthusiasm, sucking down Patrick’s cock until he’s gagging on each downstroke.

“ _Teeth_!” Patrick squeaks, somewhere on the brink of hysteria as his hips jolt sharply. It’s somehow the best and worst head he’s ever had, too clumsy, too eager, too hot, too wet, too much. “Pete! Fuck, you’re _awful_ at this…” Pete slows down with a scowl, covers his teeth and, with a little guidance from the tangle of Patrick’s hands in his hair, finds a sloppy rhythm. “Okay, that’s better. Yeah — _fuck_ , that’s — holy shit! That’s pretty awesome.”

That he’s Pete’s first taste of cock and come is a possibility that never occured to Patrick. It’s not that he’s in any way _weird_ about it, but it thrills through him nonetheless, powerfully possessive.

Pete’s hands are at his hips, nails biting crescent threads of pink-white pressure into porcelain pale skin as Patrick – groaning, sweating, head slamming against the wall in time – fights every urge to thrust. Pete’s thumb scores his hip bone, brows drawn in concentration, fuck-trashed hair tangle-twisted with sweat and lips slicked shiny with spit. Patrick rescinds his earlier assertion: right now, this moment, this heartbeat, Pete’s never looked more beautiful.

Patrick can taste the tingling tightness of his impending orgasm. It’s low in his gut, pulsing pressure down his thighs as he strains taut and tight against the dresser. It’s quick, engulfing and consuming as he twists his hips to beg, as he closes his eyes and lets darkness veil him from the copper-bright glow of Pete’s eyes. He can hear — vaguely — the splinter-sharp burst of a cry from his own fucked out throat, the way it cracks at the edges. He’s never really been one for talking during sex, always preferred to keep his mouth and his eyes closed but right now? Right now he’s babbling incoherent half-thoughts, dizzy on the dopamine that sets him soaring, fizzing with adrenaline that tingles his toes and fuzzes his vision, the raw pink flush of Pete’s lips around the rose-blush swell of his cock seared into his retinas.

He cants his hips, shallow, shuddering thrusts into the crushed velvet decadence of Pete’s fumbled blowjob. He’s _soclose_ , hanging on the knife edge of self-control by the most delicate of pulled-taut threads. He’s about to warn Pete, to tap him politely on the top of the head or something and let him know, let him decide because any second and he’s going to —

“Why’d you _stop?”_ he howls, cock throbbing screaming accusations, split-slick and furious-looking. Pete’s by his hip, eyes wide and lips conciliatory as he swipes at the mouth with the back of his wrist.

Pete blinks and eyes the lust-gorged length of Patrick’s cock warily. “It _twitched_. I — I thought it was gonna, like, go off.”

“It _was_!” Patrick’s lower lip trembles so he bites it sharply for a second – he won’t cry, he’s not ready to stoop that low yet. “Pete, come on, you’ve got to do _something_. Like, jerk me off or — or watch _me_ jerk off and make it sound like you’re into it or _something_.”

“I _am_ into it,” Pete huffs, reaching cautiously, fingers grazing Patrick’s thigh. “It’s just…” he trails off, brows drawn for a moment, voice hushed with hesitance as he continues, “doesn’t it taste — gross?”

There are many things that Patrick would dearly love to say but none of them seem particularly conducive to getting Pete to suck his cock again. Instead, he arches his eyebrows and reaches for his dick with a grunt, “Could you at least, like, _kiss_ me or something while I jack off?”

Pete’s lips move, silent prayer, eyes fixed on Patrick’s crotch as, head cocked, he considers his cock for a moment. He nods, slow and half-hazed and shifts between Patrick’s legs, catching his wrist and pressing it down to his side.

“No,” he murmurs – no one should look that good with trashed hair and eyeliner smudged like drifting storm clouds, like night sky and moonlight – head ducked and eyes on Patrick as, with a shuddered-sweet sigh, he takes him in once more.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Patrick whines as Pete sucks sloppily on his dick, spit-wet and lust-drenched and greedy for as much as he can take. He cradles Pete’s jaw in both hands, reduced to nothing more than the heat, the wetness, the slick velvet motion as Pete sucks, strokes, sucks.

This time, Pete doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate, and Patrick is half-crazed, spun dizzy and twisted as he bites the screams into the flush of his lower lip. He can taste it now, the sharp coppered well of blood that stains his tongue, the cherry burst bloom of salt on his lips and shiver-shock pain as the first pulsing throb of his cock shudders sharp through his groin.

It washes over him like storm break, skin flushed to ice then burnt with heat that licks out from the twitching epicentre of his cock flooding bitter-salt-slick into the willing pull of Pete’s lips. His vision streaks with golds and reds and deep, endless blue as he fucks his hips into Pete’s mouth, hand wrapped to the back of his head as he comes with resonant pain-tinged-pleasure. There are fireworks, explosions, endless crashing of colliding stars that swirl him stupid as misfiring neurons fight with the discordant pound of his heart.

He hears a groan from between his legs, the slippery-soft flicker of Pete’s eager tongue against the suddenly sensitive crown of his cock and he whines, high and thin and needy, as he collapses back against the dresser. He’s loose-limbed, dreamy, barely aware as Pete drifts to his lips, into his arms, surrounding him in salt-stained skin and trashy Hot Topic cologne.

Pete’s mouth tastes of Patrick’s orgasm, familiar and new and not bitter at all. Patrick’s skirt is shoved up over his hips, his boxers pooled around his ankles, his cock softening and sensitive against Pete’s jeans. “How’d it taste?”

“Delicious,” Pete says, biting at Patrick’s earlobe. “Hey, Trick? Wanna come sit in Santa’s lap? I’ve got a package for you.”

“You’re disgusting,” says Patrick, although he doesn’t mean it, “quit adding weird connotations to my childhood memories.”

But he goes.

*

If sex is something to be revered, chased, prized above all else, then Patrick is learning the difference between hook-up and heartfelt. It feels golden, precious metal, solid all the way through. Everything that came before was gilded, gold-plated but not the real thing. Yes, Patrick is figuring it out as they taste and touch, kiss and fuck. The light outside shifts from steel-gray afternoon to streetlight amber and Patrick isn’t close to sated.

If Patrick dies here on this mattress spotted with condoms and come, gritty with the smell of their sweat and sweet with the taste of Pete’s mouth, his cock and each plane of copper skin, he’ll go out happy.

“Love you,” says Pete.

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, his voice raw, his throat rough. “Love you, too.”

Pete slides between his legs, hard again, Patrick closes his eyes and issues a full-body surrender.

“All I want for Christmas...”

*

“... _is you_ ,” Patrick hits the high note, rocks up onto his toes and feels it tingle down through his fingertips.

Behind him, Pete presses in close — like he always does — tosses his bass up his back and smears his lips against the sweat-salt slick at the back of Patrick’s neck— like he always does. He breathes, heavy and sweet, slumps into the shape of Patrick up on stage and tugs at the hem of his skirt. Patrick kicks him— yeah, like he _always_ does. They’re together, but some things will not change, he decides as Pete grins, skips back and spins away under colored explosions of overhead lights.

As his skirt swishes against his thighs, Patrick imagines he can see the outline of cute little Mrs Claus panties under the skin-tight line of Pete’s jeans. Scarlet lace and satin and edged with snow-white, feather-soft fur that glows electric against Pete’s skin.

Oh, turnabout is very much fair play.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. I hope you all have a wonderful time whichever holiday you're celebrating (and if you're not celebrating at all, I hope life is awesome generally!).
> 
> Comments and kudos are like totally free Christmas gifts! Or you can come chat to me on tumblr @sn1tchesandtalkers.


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